


A Thousand Deaths

by Dorksidefiker



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-05
Updated: 2013-01-05
Packaged: 2017-11-23 19:43:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/625850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dorksidefiker/pseuds/Dorksidefiker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek had a lot of time to consider the thousand ways he could die; right now the most likely cause is going to be the stench.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Thousand Deaths

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mlyn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mlyn/gifts).



> Set during Season 1, when Derek is hiding out in Stiles' room. A thousand thank yous to my glorious beta, jflowy, catcher of typos and odd phrasings.

Derek Hale wasn't sure what was going to kill him first; the Argents, the Alpha, the police, or the _smell_  
  
At the moment, he was willing to bet money on the stench, the _pong_ that filled Stiles Stilinki's room; a horrifying amount of body spray overlaying sweat and the perpetual low grade arousal universal to teenagers everywhere. The sheets were days old and though he knew it wasn't that big, the pile of dirty clothes kicked into the corner seemed to fill the whole damn bedroom. However, he knew that even of the sheets had been fresh from the dryer and the clothes recently washed, it wouldn't have helped. The mattress had _marinated_ in the stink of Stiles for years; the whole _room_ had. Worst of all, Derek couldn't escape it without risking capture and most likely a slow, even more agonizing end by way of a wolfsbane bullet.  
  
So he was stuck with the stench of Stiles Stilinski.  
  
Without the eternally babbling Stiles in the room, there wasn't even anything to distract Derek from the smell. Try as he might, his thoughts kept wandering back to the odor; he'd have thought that trying to work out who the Alpha was while evading both the police and the Argents would have been more than enough to keep his mind occupied.  
  
Of course, if Scott and Stiles weren't two of the greatest pains in the ass Derek had _ever_ encountered in his life, he wouldn't have been hiding from the damn police in the first place.  
  
Derek's instincts screamed at him him to piss somewhere – anywhere-- and carve out a little territory for himself, but he resisted the urge. As his mother had so often said, Derek was _not_ a slave to his instincts – and peeing on someone else's territory was _beyond_ rude. Mom had been big on civility and good manners; she probably would have boxed his ears and read him the riot act for how he was behaving now, no matter what the circumstances. But she had been an Alpha, _born_ an Alpha, and had never had to deal with this kind of bullshit from anyone. Mother's word had been law, and the force of her will had been so great that even the humans around her would cave to it. She'd been a strong Alpha, and Laura had been a more than worthy successor.  
  
Derek flopped face down in the middle of the bed, feet hanging off the end. Maybe there were some things worse than thinking about the stench of a teenage boy. Beneath the body spray ( _Dear God, Derek was going to round up of all of that shit and chuck it out the window_ ) and _Stiles_ was a scent that Derek eventually identified as _Scott_. Drowned in the acrid smell of medicinal chemicals and not as easily recognized as the Scott-scent Derek was used to, but at it's core it was still _Scott_. Derek dubbed it Scott-That-Was; the human he had been before the Alpha had bitten him – and if Derek got the chance to question the Alpha before he ripped the son of a whore's throat out, he was going to ask why _Scott_ and not, say, Stiles. Any pack would have considered Stiles, with all his cleverness and loyalty a far better addition than the human potato.  
  
Uncle Peter would have loved Stiles.  
  
The more current Scott-scent was starting to obliterate the old one, but it would be a long time before Scott-That-Was faded completely.  
  
There was probably a metaphor in there somewhere, but Derek didn't care to give it much more thought. Instead, he buried his nose in the pillow. If he couldn't escape the Stiles Stench, then he would investigate it, worry it apart like a dog (or his cousin Jared) with a chew toy.  
  
Besides, bed sniffing was much more socially acceptable than underwear sniffing.  
  
Stiles' scent, Derek decided, was salty and earthy and just too damn much. Maybe the underwear _would_ have been a better choice; no matter how slovenly a teenage boy might be, they wouldn't leave semen filled underwear just laying about. Of course, because this was Derek's life, Stiles' bed smelled like sex. Not with another person, but still--  
  
Laura had made it abundantly clear, when they'd been stuck sharing a room while she'd looking for a more permanent, secure place for them to settle, that if Derek was going to jerk off, he was going to do it in the bathroom, where the smell could be more easily eliminated. Now Derek could appreciate that edict.  
  
The constant low grade _want_ Stiles gave off was one thing, but the ground in stench of old spunk never properly cleaned away was another.  
  
He knew he was being unfair to Stiles in that assessment; as far as human noses were concerned, the bed was practically meticulously clean. But Derek wasn't human, and by God the world seemed set on making him suffer for it.  
  
Derek rolled onto his back and flung his arm over his eyes, trying very hard not to think at all about _anything_.  
  
Laura would have joked that Derek's real problem was that he needed to get laid in the _worst_ way.  
  
Maybe she would have been right, but that was _not_ going to happen, no matter how tempting it was to rub and rut against Stiles until the boy's scent was covered over and mingled with his own. Derek reminded himself that he was not a slave to his instincts, he was their master. Stiles could vibrate with _want_ all he liked while he 'covertly' watched Derek and tried to distract them both with the constant stream of chatter – _nothing was going to happen._  
  
 _Christ_ , he was hard.  
  
Derek glared down at his crotch, the bulge not painfully obvious only because of the tightness of his jeans.  
  
Instead, it was just _painful_ , and if pissing in the corner was bad, jerking off in the bed was much, _much_ worse.  
  
The scent was going to kill him.


End file.
